


The French Are Glad To Die For Love

by botanicalbouquet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: Enjolras is sick, Grantaire is a Mess, Grantaire is also a simp, M/M, Moulin Rouge AU, Writer Grantaire, chaotic Courfeyrac, courtesan Enjolras, oh no here comes consumption with a steel chair, rated mature for the mature themes and mention of mature themes!, updating tags as i go!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28165416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanicalbouquet/pseuds/botanicalbouquet
Summary: “There was a boy. A very strange enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far... very far. Over land and sea. A little shy and sad of eye but very wise was he. And then one day, a magic day he passed my way. And while we spoke of many things, fools and kinds, this he said to me... the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”Grantaire is a penniless writer and artist who delights in the possibility of destiny and fate far too much. However, stumbling upon wonderful roommates and a breathtaking courtesan felt all too good to be true. After all, destiny can’t always be kind, can it?Alternatively - a Moulin Rouge E/R AU that nobody asked for!
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. The Sparkling Diamond

**Author's Note:**

> Moulin Rouge is another movie musical that lives in my head absolutely rent free all year round. So, of course, I had to write an E/R AU based on it. It was the only way to make watching the movie several times a day justifiable. 
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful friend for beta-ing for me! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it so far!

“ _The French are glad to die for love_.”

The sultry voice seemed to render the packed hall silent. Every single person in the room turned or lifted their chin, seeking out the source of such an angelic yet devious tone. It felt like a siren’s call and all of the patrons were sailors, sailing directly towards sharp rocks in their search. Glitter began to flutter down from the ceiling, as if it were an impromptu shower of shimmering rain. Silver, gold, purple, turquoise, blue. Every shade imaginable that cast a rainbow in the air before settling over heads and frocks and the small sections of the ground of the crowded dance floor that could be seen.

“ _They delight in fighting duels_.”

Slowly, a trapeze began to lower and everyone craned their necks, hoping to catch the first sighting. For the first sighting would likely strike inspiration in even the most uninspired man. As each inch was revealed, the patrons were left to revel in the performance of it. A long, black train became visible that billowed from the trapeze, the wearer sat upon it like a swing. Even from so far away, it looked like it was expensive material, the light hitting the sparkly lace and the jewels that were sewn into it. However, all thoughts about expensive, lacy material were banished when a leg was revealed. First the foot, clearly clad in a fishnet stocking. Inch by inch, the slender leg was revealed and another joined it in their eye lines, one crossed over the other. It was slow, almost painful, each note the performer sang echoing across the room. Everyone was hanging on every single word and hoping so desperately to be quite literally hanging from the leg instead. The stockings came to a stop mid thigh where the frilled edge was attached to garters, a garter belt fastened securely over what looked like black, shiny hot pants. Those legs could launch a thousand ships, of that Grantaire was one hundred percent sure. 

“ _But I prefer a man who lives..._ ”

A corset was the next item to be revealed, sat above the hot pants and making it seem as if it merged into a delicate one-piece. The bodice was beautiful, an art piece in itself, and was covered in black and silver lace. Of course, much like the train that was attached to the back of the corset, it was embellished with jewels. It was a perfect match for the hot pants and stockings. A pale expanse of chest soon followed, dotted in glitter that shimmered in the many spotlights that were turned onto the performer. Collectively, the patrons seemed to run their eyes along their collarbone, shoulders and arms until they reached where their hands were. Their fingers were curled around the wires of the trapeze, each nail painted with a dark polish. However, all thoughts of polish were abandoned when they lowered further. The lips were stilled currently, still allowing everyone to hang on the previous sung out phrase, waiting for the perfect moment to move onto the next. Their eyes were closed, lashes fanning out against their skin. Grantaire wondered if his blissful state had created a false image of the shadows they cast across the performer’s face. Blond curls were the last feature to be revealed, pulled back and tied with a red ribbon. It was a stark item of colour amongst the black and silver that they wore. It was in this moment that it finally clicked. This was the performer his friends had been talking about all night. This was the performer he was destined to meet that very night. 

“ _And gives expensive jewels_.”

The eyes opened, bright blue and another sharp splash of contrasting colour, before the lips twitched upwards. Devious and titillating. 

That was Enjolras. The Sparkling Diamond. The star of the Moulin Rouge.

* * * * * * *

The summer of love. That’s how it had been described to Grantaire from the moment he stepped off the train, headlines plastered across newspapers that passed from hand to hand or were stuck to the pavement. It was 1899 and, in all honesty, Grantaire was just grateful to have broken away from his family. They held rather conservative ideals and he found them to not align with his beliefs whatsoever. Of course he’d considered staying put and stomaching it for a little longer but he would sooner walk away penniless than study to be a doctor. He was scrappy and had the ability to find a silver lining in most things. So, after packing a suitcase of all his belongings, he set out on his adventure. When he stepped off the train, he would have never been able to anticipate what laid before him, the scent of smoke and sweat and hope heavy in the air.

His first step had been to explore, obviously. He weaved his way around groups of people, dodging the occasional horse and cart as he went. The little stores he passed were absolutely delightful. One stall advertised authentic absinthe. The stall appeared to be made from old pieces of wood nailed together, decorative bottles hung from every piece with frayed rope. It didn’t seem like anyone on the streets paid it much attention but Grantaire found the appeal in it, drawing him in like he could have never expected. Upon closer inspection, he saw that a few of the bottles were hand painted. He reached out a hand, fingertips brushing over a delicate, white flower that was painted against the dark green glass. 

“Oi! You break, you buy. Look with your eyes, not your hands!”

Grantaire startled and turned his head to look where the voice had come from with an amused quirk to his lips. An elderly lady, who seemed to have around six blankets draped over her shoulders, emerged from beneath the stall to glower at Grantaire. Perhaps she would be more intimidating without the blankets, he pondered. 

“Oh, my sincerest apologies. They’re very beautiful.” He offered, gesturing to the few that were painted.

The woman seemed to bristle, though he wasn’t sure if it was out of annoyance or pride until she eventually spoke. “Thanks.” The word was short and gruff and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a chuckle as she flopped back into the chair behind her, pulling the blankets tighter. 

“Perhaps you could help me?”

“I ain’t giving you nothin’ for free, boy, so scram if that’s what you’re after.”

“No, no, no. I don’t want your wares for free. I want your advice. Penny for your thoughts, as it were.”

“Penny it is then.”

Grantaire paused for a moment. “What?”

“You said penny for my thoughts. So I’ll take a penny. Before I give you any of my thoughts.”

Grantaire should have probably been offended but he was too busy admiring the level of entrepreneurial skill she displayed. It was impressive. He laughed, running a hand through his long, dark curls for a moment before he produced a coin from his pocket and slid it across the stall’s rough surface. 

She admired it, picking it up and turning it in the light before she pocketed it. Or at least he assumed she pocketed it, it was hard to tell where her hand disappeared to underneath the mass of blankets. “What do you wanna know?”

“Well, I’m new here and-“

“I could tell.”

“And how could you possibly tell that?”

“Because you have a suitcase in your hand, dimwit, for one. And two? You actually gave me a penny for my thoughts.”

“I could always take it back if you’re going to keep interrupting me.”

“I’d love to see you try, pretty boy. Now get on with your lamentin’, I got stuff to do.”

“As I was saying,” he said pointedly, “I’m new here. I don’t have anywhere to stay just yet and it’s not like I have a job or much saved but it just means I have to find somewhere affordable. I was wondering if you knew anywhere like that?” Sensing a loophole, he quickly added, “and if you could point me in the direction of it.”

The woman grunted and leaned forwards, a hand emerging from the layers to point across the crowd to where he could see a hill. The cobble streets seemed to narrow as it went and he could feel the pull of fate the moment he looked that way. He just knew that leaving home like this was the right choice. Perhaps it was fate that he was going to stop here and be taken advantage of by a street vendor. A penny was worth it in the long run if she was pointing him in the direction of his destiny.

“Carry right on up that hill there. At the top there’s a village called Montmarte. There’s loads of cheap apartments. Look for the one that looks the most run down and you’re bound to find some sorry sap willing to take you in. They’re always looking for company and roommates. Bohemians.” Her last word was said with a disdain in her tone but Grantaire heard only opportunity. What could be better than living with likeminded bohemians? Maybe even artists! He had to go at once.

After scooping up his suitcase, Grantaire gave her a grateful nod and called a thank you over his shoulder before practically diving into the crowd. The sooner he got to Montmarte, the better. 

It was a long journey and, in the end, he ended up having to speak to many people before his luck finally changed. The apartment block he decided upon left much to be desired. The brickwork was bare and unpainted both inside and out and the numbers on the doors looked like they’d been painted on by either a drunk or someone’s first attempt at painting with their feet. He’d tried both and the former turned out to be remarkably easier than the latter. Not only were the numbers haphazard but each door was a different colour and every colour that repeated was never the same shade. For example, he’d already knocked on a yellow door before but it had been a darker yellow. It was a flaxen colour, as if it had greyed because the people inside were just so utterly boring. How could they live in a place with such character when they seemed to have so little? The next yellow door he came to was bright. Sunflower yellow with a black number painted on, small drips from it like the artist in question had used too much paint. It was looking much more like a drunken attempt. The number 7. That was supposed to be lucky, right?

Grantaire paused, fist in mid air and ready to bang on the door. Whatever they were doing inside, it sounded rowdy. Full of loud and dramatic shouting and... laughter? Whatever it was, he wanted to be involved. That and his already limited options were becoming narrower by the moment and this just felt right. Like everything in the cosmos and more were trying to pull him towards the door. So he knocked. Loudly and rhythmically, he knocked on the door.

The noise fell and the door was eventually pulled open, a head popping around it with a bright grin. The man looked around his age and his enthusiastic smile felt blinding, especially in the dimly lit hallway.

“Apartment Seven bids you.... what was the line again?” He called over his shoulder, Grantaire not being able to see much past the mop of dark curls that rivalled his own.

“Apartment Seven bids you a good whatever time of the day it is. How can I help?” A softer voice called from within. 

“Right! That’s the one.” He turned his head to look at Grantaire properly again, grin still firmly in place. He was radiant. “Apartment Seven bids you a good whatever time of the day it is. How can I he-“

“No!” The same voice from before shouted in protest. “You’re supposed to actually say the time of day! Morning, afternoon, evening.”

“Bold of you to assume I know what time of the day it is, Jehan!”

“It’s all times of day somewhere, right?” Grantaire commented, starting to smile as he witnessed the exchange from arguably the wrong side of the door.

“Exactly, my friend, a man of my own heart. How can I help?” He asked, offering a hand for Grantaire to shake. 

Grantaire shook it firmly, hoping that this would finally be the one. There was a good feeling, surely this was going to tip the scales in his favour. He needed this. 

“I’m Grantaire.”

“Courfeyrac,” introduced the other man briefly. 

“Nice to meet you. I was looking for somewhere to stay, actually? I’ll be completely honest, I don’t have much to offer in terms of money but I’m a decent roommate. I clean up after myself, I have a good sense of humour and I’m great to get drunk with. I figured that wherever I stay, I could contribute what I have saved up and then see if I can get some work. Sell scripts or paintings and-“

“Wait, are you an artist?” Courfeyrac stopped him to ask, looking as if he’d just had a mini revelation of sorts. 

Grantaire felt his smile growing, feeling that this was definitely going to go in his favour. It seemed to mean something to Courfeyrac and he was wondering if the other man had been in search of an artist. It was all paying right into Grantaire’s beliefs in the all powerful destiny and fate. 

“Sure am. I write and paint, for the most part. Plays, set designs, paintings.”

“Holy shit, I found him. Look no more, wayward child of the revolution! Come on in. What’s ours is yours, make yourself at home. We’ve been looking for someone just like you to collaborate on our little passion project. It’s a play, Grantaire.” Courfeyrac slung his arm over Grantaire’s shoulder and nudged the door open to guide him inside. “Everybody, this is Grantaire. He’s a writer and a painter and our newest roommate.”

Grantaire heaved a sigh of relief and chuckled, letting himself be guided inside. There was an attempt at a set (it looked like pencil sketching on cardboard) hung with rope from a light fitting in the ceiling and three people with scripts. The one at the desk had a typewriter pushed to one side and was surrounded by papers that looked like they were various drafts of different pages. They had a slender frame, gentle eyes and mousy hair, perfectly matched with a loose blouse. The one stood in what looked to be the makeshift performance space was much broader, a far more devious expression on his face and holding a script with notes visibly scrawled on every inch of it. The last of the little group was stood further back in the space, script by his feet as he seemed to be attempting to fix one of the ropes attached to their set pieces. He had hair a little darker than the second person but it was in tight curls, far closer to his head than Courfeyrac’s were. They all looked at one another, smiling in turn. The expressions seemed to vary though. The first person seemed hopeful, the second looked as if he were mentally planning something and the third just seemed genuine and welcoming. If nothing else, this would be fun.

“Where are my manners? Let me take that, I’ll introduce you to everyone,” Courfeyrac took the suitcase and set it in the closest room. He soon hurried back, arm returning over Grantaire’s shoulders so he could conduct introductions. Firstly, he pointed to the person by the typewriter, “this is Jehan. They’ve written most of the material we have so far but they’re the first to admit that we need a playwright. Poetry is more their thing.” He winked at his friend across the room, now pointing to the more devious looking one with the mostly unbuttoned shirt. Grantaire wondered if there were much point to the three buttons that were actually fastened. “Bahorel. He’s one of our wonderful actors. Always has an opinion, always makes his notes known. Troublemaker.” Another wink. He then gestured to the last one, who brushed his hands off and stepped forwards to shake Grantaire’s hand. “And, last but not least, this is Feuilly. Actor and choreographer. Usually arguing with Bahorel about something or another. Then there’s me.” He turned to face Grantaire, hands rested on a shoulder each. “Actor and occasionally director.” He grinned, his hands squeezing to reassure him. “Welcome home, Grantaire.” 

The first couple of weeks passed by in a blur. It was a lot of late nights (usually with a great amount of alcoholic influence) with an eventual end product. A show. A show that they were actually proud of. It held all of the bohemian ideals that they waxed poetics about on a daily basis. Freedom. Beauty. Truth. Love. Sure, it was a work in progress but they had plenty of time to fix things and make corrections. For now, they had a much more important issue to tackle. Money. It was something that seemed to evade all of the occupiers of Apartment Seven and it was, unfortunately, the only thing in the way of getting their show the attention and audience it deserved. It just so happened that their solution came in an off handed comment from Courfeyrac about them making a trip to the most famous night club in town.

The Moulin Rouge was renowned for being quite the salacious location. It was a dance hall, playing host for all manner of gentlemen, gentlewomen and courtesans and all their hedonistic desires. Grantaire would absolutely have been more excited about their trip if it didn’t come with a certain expectation from Courfeyrac. It wasn’t to be a casual meeting, no, quite the opposite. Business rather than pleasure. Apparently, the man knew one of the owners and had secured a meeting with one of them. Courfeyrac had quite enthusiastically announced this arrangement one morning, leaving the four of them to stare at him in disbelief for the longest of moments.

“Monsieur Thernadier said we can maybe meet to discuss the prospects, what we might be able to offer him. How they can benefit from it financially. I know he said they have another investor that’s interested but we’ll just have to get in there first, won’t we?” 

“What on earth makes you think we have anything to offer him, Courf?” Grantaire asked, lifting his head where it had been laid in Jehan’s lap, their hands in his hair carefully. There were flecks of paint still there that they were trying to pick away. “We have no money.”

“Ahhhh, but you have to think wise, mon ami! We, enthusiastic and bright eyed children of the revolution, don’t necessarily have to convince him directly. Just his most esteemed performer.”

“You mean prostitute.” Bahorel sing-songed from where he was laid upside down, legs precariously propped upon a chair.

“ _Bahorel_! Courtesan is a far more respectful term. But yes, a courtesan. Grantaire, _listen_. You wow them with your dashing smile and a bit of poetry from the show and they’ll be begging to pay you instead of the other way around.” All three of them burst out laughing, of course, but Courfeyrac continued nonetheless. “What?! It’s just a meeting, a poetry reading. You can handle that. What’s the worst that could happen?”

In his idea of fate and destiny, Grantaire could never have anticipated what was the worst that could happen. As planned, all four of them dressed in the most formal suits they could find, hair slicked back as much as they could manage and made their way to the Moulin Rouge. It was everything and more than he could have imagined. It was nothing of the abhorrent cesspit that his father had described. It was a burst of lights and fabrics and smiles and laughter and music. The best way he could summarise it was artistic. And how could Grantaire deny himself of anything that was artistic? The lighting of the dance floor was incredible. It was an open space that didn’t seem to look open at all until it cleared between numbers or to change performers. The various men and women that worked there were clad in the most expensive but provocative of outfits. Grantaire wasn’t sure how such vast quantities of fabric could result in provocativeness, but it did. He supposed that that was the point of artistry, especially for those that danced seductively for a living. It was thrilling. For the first time in his life, watching the dancers gave him the blissful escape that he chased with whiskey. Or rather, since arriving in Montmarte, absinthe. However, he didn’t know that those dancers were soon going to be cleared from his mind by just one. One courtesan who was due to privately meet him later, not knowing that he was also due to meet another, a duke, that very evening. The room came to a halt when the music changed, the lights dimming, all eyes flitting around to see where the next attraction was going to appear from. And then it began.

“ _The French are glad to die for love_.”


	2. The Misunderstanding

It could have been the alcohol or it could have been the sight of those stockings but Grantaire could feel his entire face heating up. He didn’t think it was overly obvious until Courfeyrac elbowed him in the ribs and shot him a devilish grin. Upon recalling the discussion about who he was to meet, Grantaire decided that it could be no one else other than this man on the trapeze. Courfeyrac had described him as the ‘most esteemed performer’ and this was certainly an entrance befitting of such a person. He was captivating, every word and movement calling out to every man in the room and holding their attention. The trapeze continued to lower and it was only when the blond’s smile began to widen into a more devious one that the band began to play again. 

Enjolras swung above the heads of the people packed onto the dance floor, reaching out one hand so that some of the patrons could brush fingertips with him. It was the only contact they would be getting for free so they needed to make the most of it. There was only so much of him to go around. 

“Gorgeous, huh? There’s a reason they call Monsieur Enjolras the Sparkling Diamond.” Bahorel remarked from where he was slouched against the wall of their little booth seat. It was up a set of stairs from the dance floor, giving a perfect view of any of the action happening. “Expensive, I hear. Then again, look around. All these people that are willing to pay for it.” 

“ _Shhh_ ,” Grantaire hissed, half perched against the edge of the table and batting away a hand from his hair. He assumed it had been Bahorel’s hand but he didn’t really care. He was far too busy concentrating on the show on the dance floor. How could one person be so truly entrancing? 

Enjolras was on the floor now, trapeze being pulled away into the ceiling. Grantaire’s eyes didn’t care to follow it, of course, as he was far more concerned with watching the dancer. He seemed to spring from group to group as he sang, each word sultry and clear. However, Grantaire wasn’t sure he could actually recall what those words were, his mind short-circuiting at every kick or roll of his hips or when his eyes came in his direction. Every time their eyes almost met, he felt as though his heart might just stop altogether. 

“He’s got it bad. You sure this is going to work?” He could hear Bahorel asking over the top of his head, presumably to Courfeyrac who was perched on the table beside him.

“Of course it will! Even better if his heart is in it, non?” Came a response from Courfeyrac, confirming his suspicion about who Bahorel had been talking to. 

“Positively evil. I approve.” 

It seemed as though the music was building and suddenly several people in colourful frocks had surrounded Enjolras, skirts lifting to their chests so they could kick and go over repetitive footwork. A man made his way across the dance floor, dressed in a brightly coloured suit. The suit jacket had tails and embroidered lapels and the outfit was fully completed with a tall top hat and a wooden cane. Had he just appeared or was Grantaire only just noticing him? It was anybody's guess, really, since his eyes had exclusively been on the blond. The man and Enjolras were now stood in the middle of the circle of dancers, doing some sort of performance bit that was something to do with the older man teasing the blond with various jewels. He couldn’t really focus on it that much to track a coherent plot. Not that he was even confident there was one. 

“Who’s that?” He asked when he could will his voice to work again. 

“Jealous?” Courfeyrac responded almost instantly.

“Oh, be kind to the lovestruck puppy, Courf.” Jehan chided, sliding into the booth with a martini glass propped quite elegantly atop one of their hands. 

“Very well, only for you, Jehan.” Courfeyrac winked at them over Grantaire’s head before sinking to give him a nudge to the ribs. “No need to be jealous, they have more of a father and son dynamic going on. So, I’m sure by now you know the blond. Enjolras, the Sparkling Diamond, blah blah etcetera. You get the picture. The man standing next to him is Monsieur Thernadier. He and his wife own the Moulin Rouge but he’s the front and centre guy. She can usually be found either in one of the back rooms or at the bar fishing things out of people’s pockets.” He threw an arm dramatically around his friend’s shoulders so he could pat the pocket on his chest. “After this number, a very important part of the show and astoundingly long, you’ll be having your meeting with Enjolras. Just the two of you.”

“Just the two of us?” Grantaire questioned, eyes breaking from the scene in front of him to snap to Courfeyrac briefly, a hint of panic resting there. The circle of dancers had begun to spiral, with more and more extravagant performers obscuring Grantaire’s view. The frustrating mass of fabric and tall hairpieces were now completely blocking out Enjolras and Thernadier. “Just me and Enjolras? Alone? Totally alone?” 

“Totally alone!” Courfeyrac declared as he stood with a flourish, knocking the glass right out of Jehan’s hand. They all watched in awe as it seemed to fly through the air in slow motion, eventually coming to a stop as it hit and spilled down the front of a man’s shirt. 

Across the dance floor and in the middle of the swarm of dancers were Enjolras and Thernadier. Anyone working at the Moulin Rouge seemed to become part of the large, dysfunctional family. Every single one of them had a special role or purpose and Enjolras’ was to be the star of the show. Aside from Thernadier, of course, who he often shared the spotlight with. Enjolras was a courtesan and a dancer, often taking in private audiences with possible investors and anyone willing or stupid enough to pay handsomely for their time with him. It was a strange position he found himself in but it wasn’t as though he hated it entirely. It was nice to be around people he considered family and the opportunity to perform and be treated like a star was something he couldn’t refuse. 

“Not long left, my flower, and you’ll be ushered away for your meeting,” Thernadier spoke as he shimmied out of the fancy suit jacket and passed it to one of the dressers that had been snuck into their circle. It was a regular trick at the Moulin Rouge; cover them with dancers and then execute some extravagant costume change.

“Exciting,” came Enjolras’ sarcastic reply, coupled with a smirk and a roll of his eyes. “And you said he’d invest, yes?”

“There’s a chance, absolutely. You just have to show him you’re worth more than one evening. Keep a few tricks up your sleeve and he’ll want to invest.”

“I have plenty, it’ll be fine.”

“This is important. His money is important, we need it. The Moulin Rouge needs it. And if you give him a good enough reason to invest, especially in you, he’ll-”

“Make me a real actor?” Enjolras asked, looking up from where he’d been shimmying off the black stockings to swap them for a white pair. 

“Make you a real actor! And then you’ll be raking in the money. Might even stop for a moment to pay your dear Moulin family a visit when you’ve made it in the acting world.” Thernadier’s suit was now swapped out for a white one with gold trim, matching the corset that Enjolras was currently being laced into. They were the more elaborate costumes in use in their performances, but that was only because they were the centre of attention more often than not.

“Of course. That goes under the category of making a differen- _Ah!_ Eponine, careful, that pinched.” He hissed, looking over his shoulder to grimace at the brunette who had been pulling the ribbons tight.

“Sorry. Occupational hazard, darling. You’d think you’d be used to it by now,” Eponine told him, leaning up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his temple. “All laced in. Hands.”

Enjolras furrowed his brow and brought up a hand to rub at his temple just to make sure none of her red lipstick had rubbed off there. She was in one of the many frocks made for the dancers, purple and laced in tight up to the hip where the frills started. She often complained about the frills but they were easier to lift and light enough to get out of the way and move around when dancing. He lifted each hand for her to pull on a velvet glove. They weren’t soft anymore after being washed so many times but they still, somehow, looked spectacular. Each glove was embroidered with gold thread, swirly patterns from the fingertips all the way down to where the gloves stopped just below the elbow. 

“I’m not so sure what the patrons find so attractive about gloves.” He muttered, thinking about how clammy and overheated they made his forearms and hands feel. 

“Me neither. When they’re paying by the hour, or even the minute, it’s just more to take off.” Eponine chirped and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Good luck.” She caught the last of the discarded clothes when Thernadier threw them to her and she was off, disappearing into the crowd of dancers.

The corset, which he was now tightly laced into, was stitched similarly to the gloves but instead of swirls, it was intricate roses. The edges at the top and bottom were finished with gold lace, a finishing touch on a beautiful corset. It truly was one of Enjolras’ favourite pieces. He clipped the stockings onto the new garter belt and pushed on his shoes. He wasn’t going to have another incident like a few months ago where he stood on some kind of pin on the dance floor because he’d forgone shoes for the sake of the outfit. 

As soon as they were ready, the dancers twirled away to reveal Enjolras and Thernadier in entirely new outfits, both of them painting on bright grins. Enjolras had gotten particularly good at painting on his various performance faces when he didn’t feel like it. It was necessary for this job, especially if you actually wanted to make any money doing it. 

“So, which one is he?” Enjolras whispered as they made a show of dancing around one another, Thernadier dangling a sparkly jewel (one designed to clip around your waist) and him making a show of trying to snatch it. He pouted every time as each swipe missed, looking out to the many patrons who were watching.

“He is… _over there_.” Thernadier made a subtle gesture with his head. 

Enjolras missed the jewel again, purposely, and lifted his hands to the audience in a shrugging motion. It was enough to buy him time to get a good look. However, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be looking at. He assumed it was one of the many people involved in what could only be described as a kerfuffle. There were several people, all looking like they were shouting at one another. He did recognise Courfeyrac though, a man who had been a customer here on many occasions and had quite often been found pitching shows to Thernadier over a glass of whiskey. 

“Which one?” He asked, knowing he would need something more specific. They twirled and swapped places, Enjolras now playing to the crowd on the other side.

Thernadier squinted. Courfeyrac seemed to be almost squared up to the taller man in the booth beside his, both of them stood and shouting at each other whilst Courfeyrac waved a handkerchief in his face. The other man was the duke. Tall, dressed in a dark suit, a tailcoat and a top hat. His sideburns sat quite low and his facial hair was trimmed but still there, etching his upper lip with hair. 

“You remember Courfeyrac, I presume? Well, he’s the one Courfeyrac is waving a handkerchief at.”

They swapped again, another exchange that went along with the music. However, they weren’t the only people to turn.

When Enjolras turned so his eyes could locate where Courfeyrac had been before, the man was waving a handkerchief in the face of another man who was a little bit shorter than him. He seemed to look absolutely mortified but wasn’t backing away from Courfeyrac in any way. Did they know one another? It seemed as though they were having some sort of heated debate and the handkerchief had gotten involved. Not surprising with the number of drinks that spilled throughout the night, it was probably being used to mop up liquor. The man looked smart, at least, but he wasn’t what Enjolras expected for a duke. His hair looked almost wild and his tie was askew. He supposed either of those features could have occurred in the altercation though.

“Are you sure?” He asked, finally grasping the jewel and turning to walk a circle and show off his prize to everyone watching.

As Thernadier took his turn at pouting, he stepped to where Enjolras had been to get one more look. Courfeyrac was back to waving his arms around and now seemed to be trying to mop at the front of the taller man’s shirt. The duke, yes, that was most certainly him. “I’m certain. You’re going to be wonderful, flower. Remember what I always say. Pique their interest first and then everything else and then the cash will be flowing.” 

“I’ve never heard you say that but very well,” Enjolras smirked and shimmied as one of the girls stepped over to latch the jewelled belt around his waist. It was mostly made up of gems (cheap but not appearing to be) that looked like diamonds with one large and heart-shaped blue gem in the centre. He could do this. _Deep breaths, Enjolras_. It was just one more man who would be a step towards something bigger and better. 

The song was drawing to a close, Enjolras being lifted by a few of the male dancers in suits, arms reaching out elegantly.

“ _Cause that’s when those louses go back to their spouses! Diamonds…_ ”

He was being turned slowly before being lowered, right at the bottom of the steps that led up to the two booths he and Thernadier had been looking at earlier. He took one step at a time, moving along with the lyrics.

“ _Are a girl’s… best friend._ ”

He’d finally got to where he needed to be. The arguing had stopped and it just so happened that the duke, or so he thought, was now sat down on the edge of the curved booth seat. Enjolras never got enough of this, the way a man would look at him when they first got close to him. Eyes widened in a flustered state but jaw clenching in a way that suggested they were at least making some attempt at composing themselves. 

“I hear you’re expecting me,” his voice was low and sultry and he offered one hand to him, the other lifted so he could lean against the partition between the two booths. “Care to dance?”

Grantaire was panicking. He was pretty sure he had never been this close to a man this beautiful in all of his life. The blond was radiant and every single inch of him oozed sex appeal and beauty. It was the type of thing people would fight over or paint or make statues of. And yet here he was, being asked to dance and he couldn’t seem to find the words to answer. He was rather worried that he would open his mouth and the most incomprehensible of sounds would come tumbling out.

“He’d love to.” Bahorel spoke for him, leaning across the table to gently punch Grantaire’s shoulder. “ _Go_.”

“Me?” Grantaire eventually managed, hating how his voice sounded. Good lord, did it always sound like that? Was that something that he needed to worry about now? “Oh I uh… Uhm. I’m not really a dancer.” He found himself lifting his hand nonetheless though, taking hold of the one that had been offered to him moments before. The longer it sat in front of him, expectant and waiting, the more he felt as though he needed to seize the moment while he had it. “Dancing isn’t uh. I’m... Got two left feet.”

Enjolras smiled when he took his hand, pulling sharply and enjoying the sharp exhale from the man as he was pulled to his feet. It was almost as though he was equal parts impressed and surprised by the show of strength. It happened quite often. People would underestimate him just because of how delicate he appeared at face value. “Got two left feet? Then it’s a good job that I’m an excellent teacher, isn’t it?” 

Grantaire, now face to face with Enjolras, just swallowed thickly and gave a short nod. He would usually consider himself a confident person but, in this moment, that all seemed to trickle away. At least his remaining confidence meant that he didn’t mind the several pairs of eyes on them. Why wouldn’t there be, he was being offered a dance by the star of the show and, quite possibly, the most desired man in the entire hall. 

They both descended the set of steps and reached the dance floor, Enjolras pulling him along with a firm grip on his hand. The music had shifted slightly and there were several couples dancing across the floor at varying paces. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t at least a little overwhelming. Their joined hands were lifted to one side by the blond when they stopped, his other hand finding its way to Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire turned his head to look at it, blinking a little. He never thought gloves could be something he’d be all that keen on but he was pretty sure his mind was changing by the moment. 

“So, Monsieur…”

He was snapped out of his stupor and his eyes lifted to meet the bright blue ones that were looking at him. That put him at risk of being lost again but this time in his eyes rather than in his own conflicting thoughts about gloves. 

“Are you going to stand there looking at my hand all evening or are you going to take my waist so we can dance?”

“Huh? Your waist?”

“Yes, my waist. You know, the thing between your ribs and your hips.” He pulled the hand away from the other man’s shoulder so he could smooth his hand down the side of his corset, stopping and patting when he got to his waist. “Right there.” Then his hand returned to his shoulder and squeezed for good measure.

“Right! _Yes_. Your waist. I know what a waist is.” Grantaire cleared his throat and set his hand exactly in the place Enjolras has patted, making the move to start their dance. He’d been made to go to many a dance class for etiquette when he was younger so it wasn’t as though he was entirely new to it. “It’s quite the place here, isn’t it?” 

“It really is. We’re so delighted you’ve taken such an interest in our show.”

“Of course! I mean, I’d love to be involved.” He was sure he would sign up for most things if it involved being around Enjolras or getting to know him better. 

“Oh? That’s wonderful.” Enjolras looked pleased and Grantaire offered a nervous grin.

“Yeah? Well, provided you like what I do. Of course.” He countered, feeling his breath catch in his throat when he dipped Enjolras backwards. The way Enjolras stretched, bending backwards, and seemed to place his throat and upper chest on display was enough to make anyone’s heart stop temporarily. “I definitely hope you do. So I can get involved. In the show.” Enjolras came back up and smiled as their eyes met, moving across the floor rather quickly. 

“I’m sure we’ll absolutely love what you do.”

“I was hoping I could show you, actually. I know Courfeyrac said we could do it in private.”

Enjolras blinked a little, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he schooled it into a smirk. “Do it in private, hm?” He asked, twirling and coming back to face Grantaire. “That sounds like a pleasant affair to me. I would love to do it in private, Monsieur.”

Grantaire nodded, not quite catching onto what it was suggesting in his desperate attempt not to ruin it. He knew how important this was to his friends and to himself. That and he knew if he messed up the opportunity while he had it, he would likely never get another and would be limited to watching the Sparkling Diamond from a booth. His attention wasn't something he could really afford so this was his only chance. He was brought back to the moment though, the dancing, when Enjolras’ leg kicked and hooked over his hip. “A poetry reading.” He blurted, moving backwards with Enjolras’ supporting leg dragging behind him. “I was thinking we could do a private poetry reading.”

“A poetry reading?” The blond asked, thoroughly surprised by the euphemism but enjoying it all the same. He’d heard all manners of double entendres and euphemisms in his years but this was a new one. A poetry reading. “Oh, I love poetry,” he dropped his voice into a lower tone as he leaned closer, hand lifting from his shoulder to tug at a dark curl before his leg dropped to the floor and he was dipped backwards again. “Words are just so incredibly powerful, don’t you think?” As much as he meant it to be flirtation, he meant what he said. He’d always admired the power of words and how they could be used for so many different things. Inspiring and rallying speeches had been something that influenced him to no end. Of course, he used his skills with words differently in his current profession but tried to use them nonetheless.

“Oh, absolutely. I love poetry, I think it’s beautiful. The way you can use words for just about anything and then to make them rhyme on top of that? Perfect.” 

Enjolras found himself stilling for a moment as they both stopped, taking in one another’s comments about poetry. No, surely the man was just trying to make conversation. Win him over so that it may be less awkward for him when they were alone later. Not that Enjolras usually minded the awkwardness, he was usually too busy thinking about other things and didn’t notice it. 

“Perfect, indeed. Well, handsome, I better be going for my final number. But I’ll be seeing you for this poetry reading you have in mind right afterwards.” He stepped back, bringing their hands so they were between them and would be the last point of contact to break.

Grantaire, wanting to at least make some attempt at being a gentleman, brought Enjolras’ hand towards him and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Instead of Enjolras blushing though, it was him. He watched as the blond smiled and took his hand back gently, blowing a kiss as he strutted away to join the other dancers. Instinctively, he made his way back up the stairs and almost fell into the booth.

“I didn’t know you could dance like that,” Jehan remarked, leaning across the table so they could offer Grantaire a drink.

Grantaire took it and threw it back, barely flinching as the strong liquid made its way down. He needed that. Perhaps he should have drunk a little for confidence before he was pulled out to dance. Not that he was given much warning. “Me neither.”

“Putty in your hands, Taire! I told you that you could do it!” Courfeyrac grinned and dropped down to sit behind him so he could nudge at his back. 

“Do it? All I did was dance and ramble about poetry. Jeez, I’m not cut out for this.” Grantaire dragged a hand over his face, pausing with it briefly so he could pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Just the poetry reading, right? Give him some poetry from the show, some lyrics that I wrote, and then talk about the show. That should be it, right?”

“That’s it,” Courfeyrac confirmed, draping an arm around his shoulders to offer some comfort. He didn’t miss the way Grantaire’s eyes followed Enjolras as he moved across the dance floor and took his place on the trapeze swing again. He just hoped his friend wouldn’t get too hurt in this whole process. “You know the show like the back of your hand, you were responsible for the majority of it, let’s be honest. Now let’s see that confidence that we see in rehearsals!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder so he could lift his eyebrows and fix Courfeyrac with a look. 

“Close enough.” 

The song from earlier had made a return for a more upbeat reprise, Enjolras now dressed in his new outfit and sitting on the trapeze swing, one leg crossed over the other. It was enough to silence their little group to watch him momentarily.

“ _Square-cut or pear-shaped, these rocks don’t lose their shape... Diamonds are a girl’s best…”_ "

He paused. The entire ballroom was waiting, some with arms raised ready to applaud and some lifting their drinks to toast to the Sparkling Diamond. However, the pause seemed to drag on forever and it had Grantaire wondering if it was some sort of tactic to draw the attention in that direction.

“Come on, we have to prepare you for the reading. We can’t have you going into the meeting unprepared, not when you’re already nervous.” Courfeyrac told him and pushed from behind, huffing out a chuckle when his friend stumbled and regained his balance fairly quickly.

“Are you sure, shouldn’t we sta-“

“No, I insist, let’s go. You’ll see plenty of the Sparkling Diamond later.”

“Courfeyrac’s right. Plenty of him. Let’s go.” Feuilly nodded, glancing around to make sure that they could get out without causing a problem.

“I’m always right.” Courfeyrac declared quickly and grasped Grantaire’s sleeve, all of them heading collectively towards the nearest door. Grantaire did glance back briefly to catch a glimpse of Enjolras on the swing before the door clicked shut behind them, blocking his view entirely. Courfeyrac was right, he had a lot of preparing to do if he wanted the meeting to go smoothly.

Enjolras knew that this lengthy pause in the music wasn’t a stall tactic. Usually, by now, he would be belting out ‘friend’ before being pulled up into the ceiling. Cue more sparkly confetti to rain down and that was that number done with. But no. This time it was different. He couldn’t breathe. He just couldn’t breathe at all. His lungs seemed to stop entirely and he tipped his head back, desperately trying to get some kind of air in. He wasn’t particularly prone to panic attacks but it was certainly beginning to feel like one. The line between the issue with his lungs and the panicking was becoming thinner by the second. His vision was beginning to blur, chest aching deeply. He tried to grip onto the wires of the swing but the lack of air translated to a lack of strength in his fingers. Watching his gloved hands try to grasp in panic was the last thing he remembered before he blacked out and tumbled from the swing, a blur of white and gold fabric as he fell from the great height.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter was uploaded a bit later than I intended but if you got this far, thank you so much! I'm having so much fun writing this.


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